We Happy Few
by Skyborn Huntress
Summary: Fili watches helplessly over Kili's suffering in Lake-town. Sigrid worries in her father's absence. A free-minded boy tries to placate his father and save his sister from her demons. In which we investigate the narrative consequences of PJ's changes in TDoS: Fili chooses sides; Sigrid realizes her own strength; and Lake-town burns. AU character interpretations, OCs.
1. The Lady and the Loom

.

**We Happy Few**

Skyborn Huntress &amp; Orion

**Authors' Note:**

This story was conceived as an attempt to show how the narrative would be altered by the changes introduced by Jackson. As these changes became much more radical in _The Desolation of Smaug_, we have used that film's ending as our jumping-off point. We extrapolate from there, demonstrating some of the larger-scale implications of the new characters and timeline. To further flesh out the world, we have made extensive use of original elements and our own headcanons; these are explained in the notes as necessary.

We hope you enjoy our thought experiment. :)

See end of the work for footnotes (i-vii).

* * *

**Chapter 1 _—_**** The Lady and the Loom**

_"And so she weaveth steadily,  
And little other care hath she,  
The Lady of Shalott."_

_ —_ Alfred, Lord Tennyson, _The Lady of Shalott_

It was said in the North that Arda did not subsist alone, but was Gyr's (i) tapestry; and for each man born the ever-wise one meted out a silver thread of days. And of all gods and men only Gyr knew where, amidst warp and weft, each thread should fit; and her hands alone bore the wisdom to place each knot and cut.

Nia Harald's daughter was not one of the Einir (ii), but she knew the way of the threads, and when she pointed from her loom Sigrid went to fetch a ball of dyed yarn.

"Yellow?" she queried, holding one up, but Nia shook her head. _That one._

Baskets upon baskets of bright yarn crowded the floor of Nia's bedchamber. Sigrid followed her gaze to the one nearest her feet and amassed a gold-spun bundle.

The other girl smiled.

Nia sat with her hands in her lap while Sigrid picked a careful way back to her side. She was three-and-ten, but she was as slight and narrow-shouldered as Tilda, two years her junior. Beneath the snowy lace sleeves of her gown her wrists were thin, her nimble fingers short and pale.

Nia _was_ always pale, though perhaps that was because she never opened the window. Sigrid cast a glance toward the heavy drapes to her right, tinted red in the sunlight. Dust motes trickled around them in a breeze she could not feel. Watching made her a little dizzy: she mopped at her brow.

When the golden thread was on the shuttle, gleaming beneath the iron lamps, Nia appealed her softly.

"Sing?"

Sigrid wet her lips and reflected a moment as she walked the shuttle across the loom. The warp-weighted loom rested at a slant, long enough to occupy most of a wall; alone, a weaver would necessarily maintain a constant pace across its length. But there were two of them, and they could just manage to pass the shuttle back and forth in front of a field of blue, orange, and red. Nia liked the bright colors best: and upon a field of sunset she had just begun the upright figure of a warrior, sword outthrust. His hair would be a golden mane, just like one of the heroes from the summer-years.

The sight of the warrior inspired her. Sigrid straightened her shoulders, handed off the shuttle, and began to sing:

_In days of yore, when Brannon's (iii) Dale_

_did gleam beneath the sun,_

_and all throughout the verdent vale_

_the caravans did run,_

__—__

_when em'ralds green on gilded chain_

_which dwarvish hands had wrought,_

_in gladness, from the neighb'ring thane,_

_to Girion King (iv) were brought,_

__—__

_the River Running flowed with gold_

_that poured forth like a fount,_

_and Lords of Summer ruled the hold_

_o'ershadowed by the mount._

__—__

_These golden days the poets hail,_

_ere did befall this doleful tale._

__—__

_Now forty winters Girion reigned,_

_Giridhion's noble heir,_

_his days untroubled and unstained:_

_that was ring-giver fair!_

__—__

_Yet summers wane, and dark must fall,_

_and nights grow long and chill:_

_on North's breath Margir Hamar's (v) thrall_

_came down to valley still._

__—__

_Before him swept a cloud-wrack grim,_

_heat crackling 'gainst the leaves,_

_the trees were shaken limb from limb,_

_and blight came o'er the sheaves._

__—__

_From out the storm-gale's iron veil_

_death-shadow came, ablaze;_

_the sky-wyrm fell on slumb'ring Dale_

_her tow'ring halls to raze!_

__—__

_His fire-hail rained o'er field and fell,_

_his voice a thund'rous boom,_

_and loudly clanged the warning-bell,_

_that iron crier of doom._

Sigrid stopped then, though she had scarce done justice to Girion's last plight. Perhaps it was the talk of death-shadows and burning, but she was starting to feel a little faint.

"It's much too warm in here," she said suddenly, laying the shuttle in Nia's hands. Her companion implored her with unblinking gaze, but offered no protest as she strode to the window. Seizing the musty curtains in both hands, Sigrid flung back the covers and inhaled a breath of salty air.

The glass pane beneath was propped open. Below the tower of the Great House sprawled Lake-town's winding planks, fish-markets, and low piers. Sea-birds squalled, and shoppers ruminated, and the low murmur rose and crested over her, silhouetted at the window. Sigrid leaned out. The Long Lake sparkled in the sunlight. To the North, at the very edge of her vision, clouds brushed the tops of low hills. The lone peak slumbered in mist.

"Please," said Nia.

Sigrid turned back. The younger girl blinked owlishly in a halo of midday light, a hand brought up to shield her face.

_If not for the lake, she would enjoy the daylight. _

Sigrid ceded, ruefully tugging at the curtains until they were nearly closed again. Their tails stirred teasingly against her hands.

When she returned to the loom, though, she was smiling. "Where were we?"

She remembered:

_As building crashed and storehouse burned_

_Man's courage slipped away,_

_but one there was whose heart still yearned_

_to see a battle-day!_

__—__

_Thus Girion grasped his pennant gold,_

_upthrust it to the sky,_

_and summoned he his kinsmen bold:_

_"To me," he cried, "draw nigh!"_

__—__

_Then gathered 'round him two-and-ten_

_whose hearts were yet unbowed,_

_and onward charged the brave bowmen_

_in war-graith grim and proud._

__—__

_But of a sudden came a gust,_

_a wind from out the East:_

_the battle-fume away was thrust_

_and all beheld the beast!_

__—__

_Each man felt terror wring his breast_

— _the stoutest souls would quake —_

_yet one could not withstand the test_

_and fled before the drake._

__—__

_And so, despairing of their plight,_

_did Grimald Green-Heart fall;_

_six more, disheartened by his flight,_

_broke oath and rank withal._

__—__

_Yet five recalled the bonds of kin_

_that tied them to their King_

_and by his side they braved the din_

_which all about did ring._

__—__

_Thus Valrós stout and Sveinrós stern_

_marched on at Girion's side,_

_while Einvald One-Hand, Ernhold Kern,_

_and Bronn came on behind._

__—__

_The warriors trudged through flick'ring flame_

_towards the banquet hall_

_'till Girion to the Windlance came_

_atop the ramparts tall._

Nia listened quietly, her head bowed over their work. The lone shaft of sunlight Sigrid had preserved fell across the girl's shoulder, spinning gold into loose flaxen curls. But it was not Nia who had disturbed her then.

A shadow moved at the edge of her vision, behind Nia's back. A figure lurked round the doorframe to her left. Sigrid did not need to look twice to recognize him.

_That man._

The black sable had perhaps been noble upon its first owner, but it now hung oily and grungy upon the housecarl's narrow frame; and its high collar forever gave him the hunched air of a vulture.

Sigrid's skin was prickling, but she wet her lips and smiled when Nia lifted her head, a question in her gaze.

She pressed on, boldly:

_Yet that day failed his hunter's eye,_

_as ne'er it should have done._

_His shaft-hail sailed over-high:_

_'twas just as Gyr had spun._

__—__

_Lo! One dread arrow in his hand,_

_black-forged in fires of Ol (vi),_

_once loosed, shot straight by his command_

_and sought a glimm'ring coal._

__—__

_It struck its mark! It loosed a scale_

_beneath the left-most wing_

_and tumbled down to smould'ring Dale_

_where skald-smiths no more sing._

__—__

_Had Girion one more shot, and true,_

_th'outlandish thing were dead;_

_alas, his final barb ne'er flew,_

_to flesh it went unwed._

__—__

_For then the dragon cruelly sent_

_brave Girion and his guard_

_to Baðr's (vii) enchanted halls, and rent _

_the line of Brannon Bard._

__—__

_The burning city was his pyre,_

_the wreck his fun'ral mound,_

_his gleaming ring-hoard lost to fire,_

_his heir ne'er to be crowned._

The watcher in the doorway rustled and coughed. But Sigrid was not yet finished. She pushed back her shoulders and concluded her reminiscence:

_On winter's eve we close our tale,_

_whilst ashes snow on des'late Dale._

"A lively song," said Alfrid, sweeping into the room. Nia jumped in her chair and sat frozen, straight as a rod, her back to the door. Sigrid looked at her friend's wide eyes, then, slowly, up to the housecarl's insincere smile.

"Thank you, sir."

"And how actual," Alfrid went on, apparently choosing to ignore the frost in her tone. "I don't suppose you are aware that Grimald son of Grimulf is my lady's forebear? The great-great grandfather of our current Master?"

Sigrid said nothing. Alfrid paused, tilting his head.

"Although, to mine ears, it sounded almost as though you named noble Grimald a coward. Do the words _revolution_ and _treason_ mean anything to you, girl?"

Sigrid did not move. "The _Lay of Girion_ tells nothing but truth, sir."

"I would not care even as you filled her ears with tales of krakens and lindworms." Alfrid shuffled forward. Ignoring Sigrid, he laid a hand on Nia's upper arm. "Nia, my sweet lady, your father beckons. A word."

Nia nodded slowly and set down her golden shuttle. While her head was bowed, Alfrid touched Sigrid's shoulder. His low voice filled her ear.

"But I caution you, your words may be taken as...less innocent by others."

Sigrid twisted free of his grasp and instead crossed her arms over her chest. "Forgive me then. I meant no harm with my singing, only to cheer Nia."

"Of course not," soothed Alfrid. "I would not besmirch you. I know how such silly trifles captivate girls."

He tutted softly. "But your father..."

Sigrid had turned away, fixating the curtains, but at those words her fingers clenched against her forearms. "What of my father?"

"His doings are known to be less innocent." Alfrid's hands closed on her shoulders. Sigrid froze. "Where is he now?"

"Working. As always."

"Are you so certain?"

Alfrid did not give her a chance to reply, though her tongue seemed melded to the roof of her mouth. Leaning down, he spoke in her ear, his breath hot and rancid. "I am not the only one with a watchful eye on him. So do be careful whom you offend, dear Sigrid. You would not want your father's ill repute...his imprisonment...to be laid on your shoulders, now, would you?"

Sigrid found her tongue. "Then your carrion-birds feed you lies. My father is innocent."

Alfrid chuckled. "Silly girl."

A noise at the door distracted him: it was a serving-man, a lean weedy figure whom Sigrid had seen at market before.

"Sorry, sir, m'ladies, but you told me to find you at once when Bard returned_—_"

_No._

Alfrid squeezed her shoulders. "You shall see soon enough," he said, and then he released her.

"Nia, my lady, get to your father."

Then his shuffling steps dissipated. The servant vanished with him. Sigrid stood staring mulishly at the glow around the curtains, a hint of the bright and airy world beyond this musty room. She started when a hand touched her arm.

It was only Nia.

"Sigrid...scared."

"No. Of course not." She smiled, turning back, and clasped Nia's warm hands. "But I must go. My father... Well. You heard that crow: my father's returned."

_And I have much to tell him before long._

_To be continued..._

* * *

**Authors' Notes, cont.:**

On Dalish: The language and culture of the Kingdom of Dale is principally based on Old Norse, with hints of Sindarin influence arising from elvish contact in the First Age. This is most noticeable in their mythology. The native Germanic-inspired pantheon was merged with Valar worship: the Valar themselves were elevated to god-like status, taking on aspects of the earlier Dalish gods; and their Sindarin names were adapted as borrowings. This mirrors the conversion of the Germanic peoples to Christianity, wherein Christian virtues came to be extolled in their poetry and prose, while at the same time Christian figures were moulded to fit the Germanic cultural landscape. See, for example, the appeals to God in Beowulf, and the image of Jesus as a Germanic war-king in the Old Saxon Heliand.

On Timing: This chapter takes place immediately prior to Bard's smuggling the dwarves into Lake-town. Their house is being watched... ;)

**Footnotes:**

(i) _Gyr_: Dalish name for the Vala Vairë; borrowed from Noldorin _Gwîr_, 'Weaver'.

(ii) _Einir_: Dalish name for their gods, that is, the Valar. From Quenya _aino_ 'god, holy one', through analogy of the plural to the commonly used _-ir_ of Old Norse. (_-ir_ then caused umlaut from _ai_ to _ei_.)

(iii) _Brannon Bard_: Founder and first Lord of Dale; a distant ancestor of Girion.

(iv) _Girion's emeralds_: As a gesture of goodwill, a necklace of 500 emeralds was given to Girion I by the dwarves of Erebor. Girion I is not to be confused with Girion II, last Lord of Dale, who in canon used the emeralds as payment for a coat of dwarf-linked rings.

(v) _Margir Hamar_: 'Many-Skins', a Dalish name for Morgoth.

(vi) _Ol_: Dalish name for Aulë; borrowed from Noldorin _Ôl_, 'Invention'. As Aulë is commonly associated with dwarves, the 'Fires of Ol' are a kenning for the smithies of Erebor.

(vii) _Baðr_: Dalish name for Námo; borrowed from Sindarin _Badhron_, 'Judge, Ordainer'.


	2. The Still and Silent Sea

.

**We Happy Few**

Skyborn Huntress &amp; Orion

**Authors' Note:**

Let us now fast-forward to the beginning of the end! See end of work for footnotes (i-iv).

* * *

**Chapter 2 —The Still and Silent Sea**

_"It is the still and silent sea that drowns a man."_

_—_ Old Norse Proverb

A fulgent eye of new autumn moon opened upon the Long Lake. Chill winds were brewing in the East, and they roiled unchallenged across the water, lifting a freezing mist upon flapping cloaks and horses' flanks.

Mathias leaned forward, urging his mare with his heels. His tarp-sealed quiver bounced against his thigh; his hood rippled back, and he tasted the lake's salt tears on his cheeks. The touch was ice. Night was falling fast, and cold. His company had glimpsed snow on the barren heaths coming down from the North. Winter was not far from the Wilderlands.

The patrol rode swiftly now, outpacing the long arms of dusk. There were twelve of them in all; they came two abreast, and Mathias alongside their leader. Yet, when he glanced back, he saw the others as slim shadows rippling over the shoreline.

Lake-town appeared suddenly from the fog ahead. A thousand lanterns glimmered like candle-flares over the black water. Even squinting, Mathias could perceive neither her handsome bell towers, nor her stooped rooftops. The piers were shrouded, where sloops with neat-folded sails made their roost. The streets lay silent. Noble and merchant, fishmonger and sea-wife: night made equals of the dormant peoples of Esgaroth.

As the lighted town neared, so did a great bonfire on the shore before them. Indiscernible between the two points stretched the Great Bridge out to Lake-town's piles. On the near end a small hut sat sentinel, but it looked to be empty tonight. A man's silhouette moved before the fire, and the tip of his outthrust spear splashed suddenly with silver.

"Who rides at this hour, and on what business?"

"We do." Before the flames Arian Crow's-Eye reined in his black courser and lowered his hood. The young ranger chieftain could have had a handsome face: he was dark-haired and dark-eyed, his sharp look intensified in the firelight. Yet, Mathias knew, he did not see the marred half of his face. A scar in Arian's left cheek forever pulled the corner of his lips in a scowl.

"The nights grow colder. Are you the only one on guard?"

"Aye, Master Ranger (i)," said the watchman. His shoulders eased now that he had recognized the riders, and he lowered his spear, instead planting it at his side. He cast a wary glance back at the guards' hut, on the cusp of the bridge. "By the Master's orders, that is. There's a rabble-rouser to be snared in town, I hear."

He glanced anew up at the riders, squinting slightly in the fire's glare. His was a broad, stubbly face with a nose that had been broken countless times, but the look in his eyes was not unfriendly. "And what news comes from the North?"

"More cold's coming before long, and there's a band of dwarves climbing the Lonely Mountain to their deaths," said Arian. He was a cheerful fellow.

Mathias shook back his wet hood. "Evening, Sven. Have you heard anything new in town?"

"I would've told you of the dwarves, but you've already seen them," said Sven the watchman. "Though what a tale they were! Only yestereve the Master supped them at his table and robed them in finery, or so I hear. They say the King under the Mountain has returned, and will make the rivers run with gold."

"Gold won't keep us warm," muttered Arian.

Night was coming on. Mathias bid Sven a good evening and let the guard return gratefully to his bonfire. He was not the only one dismounting for home now; yet others still lingered in the shadows, glancing skyward and voicing farewells.

A rough hand landed on his shoulder as he checked the buckles on his mare. "You needn't go," said Arian quietly.

Mathias blinked up at his comrade. Arian Crow's-Eye was only five years his elder, but he had grown up in the wilds, which made him gruff at the best of times. Yet, it was a well-known secret that he cheered right up for a little brandy. And the look in his dark eyes at present was not unkind.

Mathias smiled, turning back to his horse. "I must. We tarried three days too long in the Desolation. My family will be worried."

"Right. Of course."

Arian knew him too well.

"My sister worries," Mathias emended, looking back up at him. "Satisfied?"

Arian made an indecisive noise in his throat and looked away. "There's always a room and a flagon for you at the Maiden's Bounty. You know that."

"...and a sea-wife, if ever I feel so inclined," Mathias finished the usual offer for him, unable to help a grin. "I do know. Thank you, but not tonight."

Arian only nodded. "Give my regards to your sister," he said, and then he spurred his horse and wheeled around him, and crossed the Great Bridge first.

Mathias followed more slowly, his mare poking at his heels. Other rangers filtered around him. Some, like Arian, preoccupied themselves with the thought of a hot meal and a drink at the dockside taverns; others pressed for home, and waiting families. But at the market pools their paths estranged: Mathias turned aside, and the sound of his companions faded into the night wind.

* * *

Mathias sighed. At long last, he raised his fist and knocked, one, twice, on the mahogany office door.

"You're late," greeted his father's voice.

The door was unlocked. Mathias ventured inside and bowed. His cloak now lay slung over his arm, but his hair was still damp from the mist. Droplets trickled through his blond fringe and into his eyes.

"Evening, Father."

"You're _late_. Did you not stop to think, dared you even consider for a _moment _the troubles on my mind? The winter stores remain unfilled; there's rumors of unrest in the streets; and they still whisper of _elections..._ And now look here, mine only son strikes off again with his death wish!"

Mathias had the grace to wince as he lifted his head.

Master Harald sat in his plush armchair before the roaring hearth. His gout-swollen feet were propped on an ottoman; a glass of amber liquid swirled in his hand. Alfrid the housecarl was seated across from him. They were in the midst of King's table (ii), and white was floundering, by the look of things.

"I'm sorry," said Mathias, straightening. "We intended to return three nights past, but winter is already upon the Desolation..."

"And I suppose you stopped to frolic in the snow?"

Mathias did not rise to the bait. "Arian did not think it wise to push the horses_—_"

"That drunken crow!" The brandy sloshed dangerously within its glass. "You trail him like a lapdog. Are you a dog, or are you my son?"

"Your son, sire."

"_Hmph_." The Master jerked his head in a nod. "I never approved of these..._rangings._ Mark me, that was Sivney's thought, through and through. You are a lord of Lake-town, and not one of those moss-coated vagrants."

Mathias could not stop himself. "Mother was one of those vagrants."

"That she was. _Was!_ She saw sense of it in the end." Master Harald gulped his brandy and stuck out an incriminating finger. "But I did not call you here to speak of your dear dead mother. You claim to be my son, so perhaps you will take an interest in what you missed in the North. Alfrid, fetch me the contract."

"As you wish, sire." The advisor scuttled off.

In his absence Master Harald leaned back. "You must have heard the idlers singing in town. The King under the Mountain's returned, they say. Imposters and swindlers, the lot of them, _I_ say. But mayhaps there's some truth in it. It matters not: they'll pay, in the end."

Mathias had seen the dwarves in the Desolation. A sharp-eyed, wary flock they had been. Until Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror had declared himself, Arian had taken them to be brigands. Their plumed silver helmets and hauberks had been the only glimmer for many farthings of dead land.

"I heard you feasted and armed them. Have they paid for such?"

"No!" beamed the Master of Lake-town. "And it cost us seven thousand crowns to host them."

_Coin we could have spent on our own food for winter,_ Mathias thought. He said, "I don't understand."

"I didn't expect you to." Master Harald gestured, and Alfrid unfurled a scroll at him. Mathias ignored the advisor's spiky black hand; he looked up, expectantly.

"They are now in our debt; a rather _hefty_ debt, with interest, but no trouble for a king, I'm sure. And what if their kind should prove false in the end, you wonder? I chose the men who left with them very carefully. As if they were simple oarsmen! Should the dwarves abandon their course for the Mountain, let us say...they will enjoy the hospitality of the finest mercenaries this side of the Misty Mountains. And we will be none the poorer for our gamble."

Mathias pushed Alfrid's scroll away. He had no interest in the details of this particular deal. "So you swindled a band of travelers who asked for your aid. Is that all you wished to tell me?"

The Master's unctuous smile vanished. "Were you here then, you would be a little more grateful. It could have gone quite foul, had I not intervened. The people were _adamant_ about the trifles offered them by that so-called king."

"Then forgive me, Father. I was not there." Mathias bowed stiffly and turned away.

Halfway to the office door, Master Harald's voice stopped him in his tracks. "There was a raven, you know. A marriage offer for your halfwit of a sister. A most _generous_ offer: I am tempted to accept."

Mathias tasted blood. He had bitten his tongue. _He lies. He must. He wishes to unman me._ He swallowed. Aloud, he said, "Who?"

"Kefus Strongboar." Master Harald smiled and lifted his glass.

"Strongboar? The man has two wives already."

"And is the richest of the Lords of the Lake (iii). He trades in silks and scents with the East. Let him lavish his fortune on his new bride. She shan't add greatly to the clamour of his house." The Master chuckled.

Mathias's fists tightened at his sides. He had met the jarl of the eastern shore only once, but he could picture him now: a large man, uproarious and quick to fire, with a beard the color of flames and a booming laugh. He dwarfed most men, a terror on the field of war with tusks on his helm and a great heavy axe in hand.

Mathias's sister was not half his size.

"Nia is thirteen," he began.

"Indeed, almost a woman grown. The sooner she's swaddled in his silks, the better for us all, I say. We might thank the Einir she got Sivney's looks: he shan't spurn her on sight, at the least."

It took all of Mathias's self-control not to turn about and hit something. "I congratulate you, Father," he said stiffly. "Your concoctions come to fruit at last. By your leave, sire."

He left the office without waiting for a response.

* * *

"It is done," said the elf-woman, coming toward them. Oin straightened, fumbling his trumpet to his ear. Fili blinked, slowly, and lifted his gaze from the still figure on Bard's dining table.

"The poison has left him now. His fever lingers, but with herbs, and good care, he will weather that as well. I trust you will see to his recovery, _naugrim nestaron_?"

"Aye, lass. Milady, that is." Oin seemed at a loss for the proper address for the elf; at last he settled on a partial bow. "We are ever at your service for this most miraculous deed."

The elf-woman's eyes crinkled slightly, but she did not smile. "He will have questions when he wakes. But see that he continues to rest: that is the surest cure for him now."

Oin bowed again. The elf turned away and went to the door, collecting her bow and hunting knives. She would leave as she had come: unasked, a spectre in the night. But with her hand on the broken latch, for a moment, she faltered. She looked back upon the ruined kitchen, the upturned chairs, the bloodstains on the floor, and the dark-haired dwarf now slumbering peaceably upon Bard's table. She smiled.

Fili tailed her.

"What did you say to him?"

The elf-woman stirred from her thoughts and lowered her eyes to him. "You are his brother," she said.

It was not a question, so Fili did not answer. He stood with his arms folded, his feet planted apart. She must have seen a dishevelled creature, his tunic too long and rolled up at the elbows, his regal braids dissolved into a tangled golden mane. But his gaze was firm steel, and she could have no doubt that he had once been a prince.

"What did you say to him, at the last?"

The elf had weathered the evening at Kili's side, alone, pouring strange words and magics into his wound. Only once during the long hours had Fili seen his brother stir: and then the elf-maiden had smiled, and stooping kissed his flushed brow, as gentle as a lover. For some spell in the elf's words, he had slept peacefully after that.

She smiled again now, distantly. "_Ce polthannen, pe vi cuil eges cuiannenc __—__ nae, vi cuil sen ú-polthon,_" she recited. "I told him it was but a dream."

_You needn't have kissed him,_ Fili thought.

Dream or no dream, she had presumed too much of their gratitude. He could only imagine Thorin's remonstrance _—_ yet Thorin was far away now. He would never need to know. Besides, had they not both defied their uncle's will now?

_I belong with my brother,_ a part of him echoed, insolently reminding him of his own shame. _Rada (iv) must know that, _he told himself. _But this..._

It wasn't right, that was all.

The elf-woman smiled at him, but there was sadness immeasurable behind her eyes. _It wasn't a dream to you, was it,_ he wanted to say then, but even a prince had his manners. He held his tongue.

"Watch over him," she said.

"He's my brother. I always watch over him."

"He is lucky, then," said the elf. And, turning away, she vanished into the starry night before he could say _His name is Kili, you know._

* * *

Slowly, Kili turned his head to one side and smiled in recognition. "Hullo, Fee. You stayed with me, then?"

Fili straddled the bench next to his head and reached for his brother's hand. "Of course. Where else would I go?"

Kili half-shrugged. His eyes almost slid closed again. "Thought you'd left," he mumbled. "It got awful cold..."

Fili squeezed his hand sharply to silence the unsaid thought. "I never left. My place is at your side. You're... You're all I've got, brother."

Kili said nothing. He was exhausted. _Rest is the surest cure for him now._ Fili turned his head and with his free hand scrubbed at his eyes. A dull throbbing had awakened between his brows, but he could not bring himself to contemplate sleep yet.

He propped his head on his hand and closed his eyes for what felt like the first time in long days. The bench creaked next to him; a hand touched his arm.

"All right?" Sigrid's voice.

"All right," he echoed. "We'll... we'll be all right." He hardly dared to think it.

"There's some camomile tea left," Sigrid went on. "If you'd like."

Fili considered, and then cracked his eyes open. "You got any ale?"

That gleaned a smile from Bard's daughter, and she promised she would look.

In the meanwhile Fili stretched, cracking his neck from side to side, and for the first time thought of tomorrow. _Tomorrow._ If he closed his eyes he could almost see the warm glow of dawn, and boats on the water and street-hawkers on the docks. At last, the squabbling of the sea-birds would lift the night's terrible silence.

But he would not close his eyes: it was too close to risking sleep. _Aye, and nightmares._ He let his restless eyes wander the kitchen, and they found Sigrid's back as she poked through the cupboards. At sixteen, she was taller than him, but certainly fair enough to look upon. _Not bad from this angle, either._

Fili had enough sense left to stop _that_ thought in its tracks. He choked on a laugh and rubbed at his eyes. _And here I chastised the elf for a kiss._

He was tired. That was all.

Sigrid ended her search empty-handed. She brought him tea instead, which steamed untouched near his elbow as he folded a damp cloth on Kili's brow. He had started to twitch and moan again in his sleep. Any moment now, Fili imagined, he would thrash awake in a renewed fit of fever...

_And awful screaming._

His fist closed in the cloth. Droplets trickled down through sweat-streaked hair and evaporated on Kili's heated skin.

_The elf said the poison had left you. _Fili hoped she was right. He didn't yearn to call her back.

From afar, he heard low voices. The others roved around the house, aimlessly, and Sigrid coaxed her younger sister to bed.

"It's getting late," she said, kissing Tilda's brow. "You should get some sleep. We should _all _try to get some sleep."

Tilda shook her head. She curled on one of the unbroken chairs, knees pressed to her chest. "I can't. Not 'til Da's home."

"Da is..." But Sigrid trailed off, and shot an anxious look at her brother. Bain shook his head.

Bard had still not returned. While the elf had been working Bain and Bofur had taken the orc corpses out, and thrown them in the lake, but they had not seen him, either.

"Da will come back soon," Sigrid said confidently. She rubbed her sister's shoulders. "Let's get you to bed, and then maybe..."

But her bolstering suggestion was never to be heeded. At that moment the house quaked: Sigrid stumbled and caught herself against Tilda's chair. Kili rolled sideways and nearly fell from the table, but for Fili catching his shoulders. In his lunge for his brother, his elbow knocked the mug of tea, which hit the floor and shattered.

No one heard it.

"What was that?" demanded Bain as soon as the world had settled, running to the door.

Fili said nothing. His heart had jammed into his throat and he looked down at Kili, silently reassuring himself that he was unhurt. Kili was certainly awake now, though hardly wakeful, and as his eyes struggled to focus he grasped at the front of Fili's tunic.

"Fi...?"

"It's coming from the Mountain," said Bain. Bard's son leaned out into the black night, a hand on the doorframe. What he saw, Fili did not know, but it captivated him for a long moment.

Silt trickled down Fili's back, lifting hairs on his neck.

It was Tilda who guessed. "It's the dragon. The dragon's come to kill us all!" Suddenly her eyes filled with tears and she buried her head behind her knees.

Sigrid moved at once toward her and rubbed absently at her shoulders as her eyes traveled the kitchen, passing over the ashen faces of the dwarves. Then she paused.

"Da left his bow," she said softly.

Bain closed the door behind him. The lock had been smashed, and it swung open again in the wind. "I'll get mine," he said, and ran for the stairs. Meanwhile Sigrid strode toward the open door and took a long yew bow and quiver from their hooks.

Kili tugged again at his front, more anxiously. "Fili_—_"

But suddenly the tired haze had lifted from his mind. Gently, he untangled Kili's fist from his shirt and went to Sigrid at the door.

"You must leave this place."

"And where must we go?" Sigrid interrupted him. She turned back. Standing rigid, one hand extended to her sister and the other clutched to the gossamer bowstring slung across her chest, she looked suddenly as fierce and unyielding as any shield-dam among Dwarves.

"Girion's Bane will not sate himself with Lake-town. He will burn our settlements from here to the southern shores, and any and all misfortunate things that lay between. So I ask you again: where _must_ we go, Master Dwarf?"

The answer was in her white-knuckled grip; in Tilda's wide teary eyes; but Fili could not bring himself to voice it. Bain came tramping down the stairs, fumbling to belt the quiver at his side. Bofur opened a drawer full of cooking knives, examining them carefully.

The house shook again. Dust fell in his hair, and his eyes watered.

"We must try," he said, for Sigrid's bravery, for Tilda's tears, for the sad resignation in Oin's gaze. Fili straightened and looked around at them all in the flickering lamplight.

"We must try. We cannot know unless we try. And if... If it comes to a choice between dying in the shadows and burning in the light, then I will draw my swords and burn with you, Sigrid Bard's daughter."

Sigrid nodded. Her face was utterly pale, but she did not quaver in the face of their doom.

"Here, here!" called Bofur, tossing him the pair of Mannish swords the Master had allocated him. They were heavier than he was used to, and longer, but Fili did not care as he buckled them at his side. There was no time to gather the silvered armor of the Lake-town guard: and besides, it would only slow them.

"As I fought for your uncle at Azanulbizar, let me fight for you now!" Oin boomed as he bundled up the herbs the elf-woman had left behind. "For the King under the Mountain! For the Dwarves of Erebor!"

"I'll fight with you!" said Bain, plucking at his bow with fire in his eyes. "For Da!"

"And _what_ about Da?" Tilda cried over their clamor. Weapons were seized, Fili pilfered a handful of knives from Bofur's drawer, and the toymaker fitted a plumed helm over his hat. "He doesn't know!"

"We'll go by the eastern docks," said Bain, clapping her on the shoulder as he moved past to stand guard at the door. "I know where he might be."

_A strange spell,_ Fili thought suddenly. A dragon awaited them out on the lake _—_ _the _Dragon, whose monstrous figure had haunted their journey over hill and under mountain and through enchanted wood. And yet, in the face of oncoming destruction, he hardly felt afraid.

Perhaps... Perhaps he had known it would end like this, or something like it.

Only Kili had not called out allegiance and fevered battle-promises. His brother clung to the edge of the dining table, seated upright but swaying slightly. His eyes were wide and confused.

"Fili? Fili, what's happening_—_?"

Fili cupped his warm cheeks in his hands and for a long moment held their foreheads together in Dwarvish greeting. _And farewell._ Kili grasped at his fingers, numbly.

Fili smiled. "I'll burn tonight, brother. Will you come with me?"

Kili did not understand. He blinked. Then, slowly, he smiled and squeezed Fili's hands in return. _My place is at your side._

"Always."

_To be continued..._

* * *

**Footnotes:**

(i) _Rangers of the North_: After the fall of Arthedain, some of the Dúnedain, despairing of their homes, wandered East, across the Misty Mountains. They became nomads of Rhovanion; some of them lingered around the Long Lake, and guarded that area against evil. Arian's band is one such group.

(ii) _King's table_: _Hnefatafl_, an ancient relative of chess, and a popular game in Scandinavia during the Viking Age.

(iii) _Lords of the Lake_: Lake-town is one of many settlements along the Long Lake, although it is the farthest to the North. Each township is ruled by a Lord or Master, the Dalish equivalent of a Norse jarl.

(iv) _Rada_: Affectionate shortening of _radad_, the Khuzdûl word for 'mother's brother'. (As both of us coauthors are linguists, we have taken it upon ourselves to attempt a reconstruction of Khuzdûl from Tolkien's fragmentary corpus. :) )


	3. Fire and Smoke

.

**We Happy Few**

Skyborn Huntress &amp; Orion

* * *

**Chapter 3 — Fire and Smoke**

_"...The invader did begin to spew forth  
glowing fires and set ablaze the shining halls — the light of the  
burning leapt forth to the woe of men. No creature there did  
that fell winger of the air purpose to leave alive."_

— _Beowulf, _1947-1950, trans. J. R. R. Tolkien

They had no warning when the stars vanished.

A scream bubbled up in Sigrid's throat, but she made no sound. _Keep running,_ a part of her urged. _Hide,_ shrilled the rest. Her legs obeyed neither, and she froze in the middle of the rickety plank street. One hand clutched Tilda against her chest. On her other side, there was a dwarf, his features lost in the suddenly starless night.

A wave of intense heat rolled over them. The dragon's reek stung her nose: heavy, and sickening. Her eyes watered, her heart rebelled against her ribs, and each mighty beat of invisible wings threatened to wrench her off her feet.

And then Smaug roared.

A jet of orange smoke pierced the sky, and for a moment Sigrid beheld Girion's Bane. The dragon's eyes were yellow lanterns; his blood-red scales flashed with jewels; his jaws gaped, his voice was white-hot fury and murder and it rattled through her very core.

Sigrid shut her eyes.

_Gyr be merciful. If this is it, let it be done now, and quickly._

But the dragon passed. With an earth-shattering crack of lashing tail, Smaug wheeled back across the lake. Sigrid's ears rang. Tilda screamed.

Dwarvish hands seized her suddenly and flung her aside. Sigrid's eyes snapped open in time to see the salt-stained planks rushing up at her: she threw out her hands. The impact jarred her teeth into her tongue, but glancing back she was grateful. The dragon had dislodged a cascade of shingles in his ire, and they had smashed through the road behind her.

A dwarf with a curiously silver pate held out his hand. Sigrid blinked, and he became Bofur in a guard's helmet. "Thank you," she said.

Rising, she checked around for the others. Oin had Tilda now. Bain had his bow in hand and peered skyward, but he couldn't hope to hurt the dragon in the dark. Fili and Kili had fallen in a heap, but Fili at present was helping his brother back onto his shoulders.

_We've got to try,_ she thought, and turned away. Her palms stung from her fall, but clenching them stopped the pain.

Esgaroth's guardhouse loomed at the end of the block, its tall tower dark and silent. Bain rushed ahead and swung around the doorway first, bringing his bow to bear. _It's open,_ Sigrid thought warily, although perhaps that was because across the town trumpets were shrilling, and every man fit to bear arms was scrambling to the defence.

Sigrid rounded the doorway to the stockade and smelled burning. Her heart fluttered up in her throat, but soon she saw that an iron lantern had merely fallen from the eaves. Flames licked up from the broken glass, seeking the posts of the nearest cell. In the center of the room, a round table was where guards would wait out the long night shift. One of the chairs was overturned. The wardens had left two mugs unattended.

There was no one here now.

"Da?" Bain called, venturing further between the cells.

Meanwhile Sigrid stamped out the small fire. As she kicked aside the lantern a grimy hand grasped at her skirt.

"Please, missus. I don't want to die here."

She shrilled and swung out, and the hand receded behind the bars. Bofur was there to draw her back. Faces emerged from the cells on either side, dirt-smeared faces with white eyes.

"Mercy, missus. _Please._"

She choked on a sob. "Don't touch me."

And then a familiar voice hissed from down the row: "Bain! _Sigrid!_"

"Da!" Sigrid could have cried then with relief, and she ran to join Bain at the bars of a rusted cell. Bofur and Oin crowded after them, and Tilda worming her way free flung herself against the bars and hugged Bard's outstretched wrist.

"_Da!_ There you are!"

Da it was; and he looked terrible. Red skin swelled above his right eye, and though he smiled and patted Tilda's head, the look was more of a grimace than anything else.

"Where's the keys?" asked Bain.

"The guards would have taken them," Bard said, wincing.

Bain turned full circle, peering at the gloomy walls and cells as if the keys might still materialize there. Somewhere beyond, men were shouting, and Smaug's bellow made the walls quake. Dust shuddered through the slats of the upstairs armory, and something therein emitted a dull _thud._

"We'll... We'll break you out, then," said Bain.

Bard reached through the bars and squeezed his wrist. "There is no time. Bain, have you the Black Arrow?"

Bain faltered. "I hid it, as you asked. It's in a boat down by the east docks. No one will find it."

"Then I need you to take it. Bring it to the windlance atop the Great House. Set the arrow to the bow, and finish what Girion started."

"You want me to kill the dragon!" Bain spluttered.

Bard's grip tightened. "It is our only hope."

Sigrid had always known Bard to be a grim man, but in his eyes now was sobriety and something else: sadness. She understood. Understood, and refused.

"Da, _no_. We'll get you out. There must be..." She grasped at the lock and rattled it. The metal was old, but held firm. She choked.

Gently, Bard laid his calloused hands over hers. "Go, Sigrid. _Go_, and take your sister with you. Find a boat and get yourselves to shore, and safety."

"I can't," she said fiercely. "I won't leave you."

Bofur and Oin inspected the bars and muttered to themselves, and Sigrid dared to hope. _There must be a way. We must try. _Then Bofur stepped forward, doffing his helm.

"Thank you, for all you have done for us," he said.

"Repay me by seeing my children through the night," said Bard shortly. He withdrew. Suddenly hands were on Sigrid's shoulders, pulling.

"Da, _don't!_" Sigrid screamed.

But Girion's Bane did not listen. There was a roar and a crash, the guardhouse trembled, and suddenly a corner of the upper floor caved. Sigrid felt a rush of heat on her face.

Other hands reached from the cages now; doomed, shadow-patched faces pleaded with them.

"Don't leave us here. Don't let us die, please! Missus!"

They grasped at skirt and tunic and hair as they passed, but the dwarves were stronger, and suddenly Sigrid was blinking in the night air, her ears ringing.

It did not look like night any longer. Orange light seared against her eyes; thatched townhouses and mud-caked huts were ablaze, and everywhere men were shouting, hands were thrusting vessels of water. There was a sudden gout of silence, a deadly _whoosh,_ and a hundred black shafts rattled against the dragon's bejewelled hide as he flashed overhead.

"This way!" shouted Bofur, and lifting Tilda aloft — since the girl was now clutching firmly at both ears — started down the piers. Bain was gone. Sigrid turned about, lost.

_We were supposed to stand together. We were supposed to fight._

"What's happened?" Fili called out, striding toward them. Behind him, Kili leaned up against the wall of the guardhouse, deathly pale but upright. "Isn't Bard with you?"

It seemed ash had settled in her throat. "We couldn't," Sigrid said.

For a long moment Fili looked at her; then he looked back at his brother, whose knuckles had gone white against the wood. "Take Kili. I'll follow in a moment."

_But..._

Kili guessed his intent, and as he passed the dark-haired dwarf snatched at his sleeve. "You're leaving. You _said_ you wouldn't leave."

Fili caught his hand between both his own and squeezed. "Only for a moment."

"I'll come with you," Kili begged.

His eyes were white-rimmed and wild; his entire body trembled with the effort of staying upright. Fili smiled.

"Not this time." He let go.

"We couldn't break the lock," said Sigrid dumbly. At the doorway to the stockade the dwarf turned back to face her, the fire's fierce glare in his eyes.

"Maybe I can. We won't know unless I try."

* * *

"_No_," said Nia.

She clutched to Mathias's cloak, her knees locked together, her eyes overbright. Wind whipped up off the black lake and roiled the rowboat against the pier. It lashed her flaxen hair into her eyes and rippled through her nightgown. Sparks carried down from the burning town, settling in dark pinpricks against the white silk; she did not seem to feel them.

"Nia, please." Mathias turned her to face him, away from the dark lake, away from the mothers and children already huddled in the bottom of the boat. He could hear someone crying, and snatches of a lullaby to soothe a babe. Nia lowered her head. Gently, Mathias wiped the unbidden tears from her cheeks.

"It's just for a little while. I'll be along right after you."

The last he had seen of Arian Crow's-Eye, he had been leading a troop of bowmen atop the storehouses by the southern piers. The brandy had found him, and he had been laughing, fire in his eyes. He would be looking for a brother to guard his back.

Mathias tried lifting Nia. She was light, and swung easily into his arms, but at once Nia shut her eyes and clutched at his collar.

"No...boat."

_Of course._

"The guards threw down the bridges," he said. "If I could carry you across, then I would. But I can't, Nia. I need you to get in the boat and be brave for me. It's not very far to shore."

Even as he spoke the reassurances, though, he knew they would not deceive Nia.

They had not been very far from the coast on the day of her accident, either. But she had been small even then, a laughing child with a head of golden curls, and it did not take much for her to slip as she raced across the Master's gilded boat. That the water had been no higher than a man then did not matter: she had struck her head as she fell in, and ever after would she be fearful, speaking in no more than halting syllables. (i)

Nia had pressed her face to his neck. Mathias kissed her brow and carried her onto the boat, and found a spot for her beside the singing mother.

Her hands curled against the neck of his cloak.

"Matt. Please."

"You'll have to be brave for me."

Nia did not answer. At the moment there was a clatter overhead, and Mathias looked up to see newcomers scrambling into the boat. It rocked anew with the motion, and Nia shivered.

A short young man collapsed next to Nia: his legs seemed no more suited to the swaying rowboat than hers. He huffed his dark hair out of his eyes and made a face. The old man stooping to tend to him was similarly short, and bearded most extravagantly. Mathias needed to look no further to guess they were dwarves. But he paid little heed to the thought: the third dwarf was entering the boat with a small girl, and her he recognized.

Ylmr (ii) was watching out for him after all.

He rose, and sidestepping Tilda and her guardian, reached where Sigrid stood on the pier. She crossed her arms over her chest, gazing back at the falling town, and squinted in the smoke.

"Sigrid — the rangers have need of me. Can you watch over my sister?"

"In a moment." Sigrid lifted her head. "I can't see him. Can you see him?"

"Who?"

But at that moment a woman with an oar laid across her lap shouted up to them. "We can't hold any more. Hurry, or let us be off!"

Mathias prodded her. "Sigrid —"

"The windlance." She lifted her hand and pointed. Mathias followed her gaze. Through the leaping flames and heavy vapor he could just see it, somehow untouched atop the Great House. Then the dragon's shadow rushed by, and he saw it no more.

"I saw it. Why?"

"Bain hasn't got there yet." And with that her shoulders hunched and she set off at a run toward town.

"Sigrid!"

Mathias sighed, and in an instant decided. He grabbed the arm of the dwarf with Tilda, the one with a lopsided guard's helm. "Watch Nia. My sister."

He did not wait to hear the dwarf's puzzled reply as he dashed after Sigrid.

* * *

_He went this way. He came to find the Black Arrow for Bard._

Sigrid stopped short. Her breath escaped her in heaves: she bent double now, coughing. Smaug had been this way. Across the way a low awning had been ripped up, and smoke rippled from broken windows and doorways.

"Bain?" she called, once she had caught her breath.

She heard nothing but Mathias coming into view behind her, tugging at the neck of his cloak.

Sigrid bit her lip and tried again. "_Bain!_"

Embers were crackling in the ruins of the house ahead. Sigrid skirted the ash and splintered wood of the fallen awning and looked across the pool of bobbing boats. _Where would he have hidden it?_

"Sigrid." Mathias implored her, quietly.

At first she did not see what he had found among the ashes. And then she realized —

It was Bain.

A choked sound escaped her throat as she knelt next to him. Her brother's body was badly charred, curled forward beneath the rubble. _Did the weight crush him? Or had Smaug found him first?_ Sigrid did not know.

Her fist curled and hit the rotted plank next to her brother's head. _You fool._ Her shoulders shook. _We were supposed to stay together._

Mathias crouched next to her. "Sigrid, I'm sorry. But...we must go."

"Yes." Sigrid rubbed the ash and grit from her eyes, but still they stung. She forced herself to blink. Bain had hunched forward at the last, his hands clutched before his chest. There was something between his hands, so black that she had missed it among the scattered ash. But if she was not mistaken, it was not charred.

"We must." She reached for the Black Arrow.

_Burning._

Sigrid's breath caught in her throat; her eyes filled with tears. Unable to scream, unable to make a sound she curled over, clutching her hand. Blood pulsed beneath her raw skin.

"Sigrid!" In alarm Mathias took her by the wrists and turned her palms over. He winced; she saw the hazy redness of blood.

"What can you hope to do for him now?" He squeezed her wrists, gently but firmly. "We must go."

_Go where?_ she despaired. _This is our doom._

Bard was lost to them, incarcerated, likely buried beneath the ruined prison; and the brave dwarf Fili was stifled with him. Bain had perished with the only hope of Girion's legacy in his hands. What could she hope to do for him now?

What could be done for any of them?

"No," said Sigrid suddenly, her voice seeming to come from very far away. "No, I _must_."

_I am Sigrid Bard's daughter, of the line of Girion, and I will finish what he started._

_It's our only hope._

She wrapped her hands in the hem of her skirt and then, biting her lip, she grasped the hot iron and pulled it from Bain's hands. Through the fabric heat pulsed and burned. She nearly cried out, but she found her feet, and rose with the arrow cradled before her. She was biting hard enough on her lip to split it, and blood trickled over her tongue.

"Ylmr's mercy, what are you doing?" Mathias was in front of her, hands outstretched in something of a placating gesture. He was in the way.

"We must go." Sigrid couldn't talk and keep breathing and hold the burning arrow all at once. She bit her lip again. "To the windlance. _Please_."

* * *

It seemed so very long a ways.

Her eyes had blurred over with tears. They fell freely now, and some spattered against her burning hands. When the Arrow jostled, she felt her skin peeling, rupturing in calluses, and each time she nearly screamed.

Mathias led her. Down the deserted roads, through a haze of choking smoke, and then they rose above it — they were climbing — and the narrow steps took them around the Great House, and into a strange world of darkness and pinprick fires. Once, looking out, she thought she glimpsed shadows adrift across the lake. But she could not look for long.

When they rounded the top of the stairs and found the windlance, intact, turned toward the cold moon on its platform, Sigrid nearly started crying again.

She staggered forward. Mathias took her arms and she knelt before the ancient contraption, pushing the Arrow into place. Her skirt caught and tore, but it did not matter. The Black Arrow was set to the bow. She pulled back.

Her fingers did not want to uncurl. For a terrified moment she tried, and failed, and then the stagnant air stung her blistered palms too much, and she clutched them limply in her lap.

"I can't..." she whispered, stricken. _I can't avenge them._

_Was none of it enough?_

She swallowed back the bitterness of blood. Suddenly she saw Bard, grim and tempestuous, the Black Arrow in hand, swearing to keep their family safe. She saw Bain, buried beneath blackened and splintered wood. Her palms burned with angry blisters.

_After all we have sacrificed, I was our last hope. And I have failed Girion's line._

She was the last of them; but at the last, she was not alone.

She looked up at the blond-haired ranger, his soot-battered cloak snapping in the dragon's wake. Her lips parted in a whisper. "Help me."

"What will you have me do?"

Sigrid's eyes burned. "Kill the dragon."

Mathias paled and took a step back. "Kill it? You mean with...with this?" He gesticulated at the iron windlance.

Sigrid rose. "You must."

Mathias broke into a feeble laugh.

"I can't."

"You must!" She stepped forward.

"This is madness, Sigrid. The archers, they've tried all night. Nothing can bring that beast down. And I don't..."

She hit him.

"Then our sacrifices will be for nothing! My father, my brother's life, m-my hands..." Her fist throbbed terribly after punching him, and tears sprang to her eyes, "...you would throw all of them away, and have us lay down and die before the dragon. You _coward_."

"Sigrid, I mean no..." But then Mathias stopped; he sighed. His shoulders straightened and he touched a hand, gingerly, to his temple. "I'll try. I can promise no more."

Wind whipped ash into her face, and she tasted it on her tongue. "Thank you."

Beneath the watchful moon they knelt. Mathias felt out the mechanisms that had long rusted to age and elements. Once, the windlance had been free to rotate on its platform, but now its joints were frozen. Instead he crouched behind it, watching, waiting.

Sigrid barely breathed. From high they watched Smaug circle over the black waters. He came close then, hot enough to make her eyes sting anew. For a moment, the dragon carelessly bared his gold-rippling flank. She saw Mathias's hands shake on the trigger.

But he did not fire.

Smaug wheeled away, now high above them, snorting gouts of fire against the dark clouds. Then his wings folded and he plummeted. He swooped low again, splaying his wings in a fiery gale. He came slicing past the Great House...and back into Mathias's line of sight.

At once the windlance jolted to life for Grimald Green-heart's newly heartened heir. The bow twanged; the Black Arrow whistled free of its roost; a deadly course was set for the dragon's flank.

Sigrid leaped to her feet. _It struck!_ A golden scale tumbled free. Smaug jerked in the air, and roared, and all of a sudden swept up to the moon. Against its white glare he burned a line of fire, and mighty wings flared.

He was coming back.

"_No_," whispered Sigrid.

_I have doomed us all._

* * *

"You are a fool," uttered Bard at once.

Fili said nothing, but dropping his axe he proffered his hand. Bard, grimacing, took it; he hauled the tall man from the rubble.

Bard stumbled on shaken legs and leaned heavily against him. Smoke coiled thickly about them, and tears burned in Fili's eyes. What had not collapsed of the armory belched black ash above them. The sizzling air was rife with choking.

"We might both have died here. You should have stayed with your folk."

"We still might. And besides, in a way, you are my folk." But Fili could say no more. His head was in a haze. He pulled Bard's limp arm around his shoulders and heaved, and together the beleaguered pair staggered toward a gaping hole in the stockade wall.

Fili hardly noticed when they broached the world outside. Wind blasted heat and sparks in his face. He couldn't breathe. He collapsed, Bard with him.

Bard rolled over and lay, chest heaving toward the starless sky. "Should we live to see the dawn...my life is in your debt, Dwarf."

"As ours were in yours. It was only due recompense." Fili coughed and rubbed at his mouth. He could taste ash in his moustache.

Bard smiled faintly at him. Then the look faded; his eyes hardened, and he attempted to sit up.

"The Black Arrow."

"The what?"

But Bard now was struggling to stand. "I must... The windlance... kill the dragon first..."

He took a stride forward; then another; then he stumbled. Fili hastened to catch his arm and held Bard upright as he shuddered in a fit of coughing.

"Where is it?" asked Fili.

"Atop the Great House." Bard's hand weighed heavily on his shoulder. "But your kin..."

"No one is safe, so long as the dragon draws breath," said Fili. He tugged Bard's arm around his shoulders once more. "Let me take you there."

The streets were long and ringed with fire. Always the smoke burned at their faces; often Bard halted, wheezing for breath, and Fili struggled to lead him on. The old piles of Lake-town creaked and popped precariously beneath them. Once Fili's boot hit upon them with a _crack_, and he suddenly found himself floundering, his left leg plunged through into icy water. But Bard had seized his elbows and yanked him free, and they pushed on.

The man's mutter of directions in his ear guided him. Fili's mind slipped into a haze. Once, as the dragon roared distantly overhead, as men cried out and leaped off the flaming rooftops around them, he thought suddenly of Kili.

Kili was huddled safe on the shoreline with Bofur and the others. Kili was alone in the night, and delirious, and terrified without him at his side.

_I said I wouldn't leave._

_I said I'd only be a moment._

_I couldn't keep my word to Rada, either._

And then they came to the Great House, and the stairs.

Bard was a tall man, and he was nearly bent double against Fili; the dwarf was beginning to feel faint. Yet evidently he could not manage the climb alone. Fili grit his teeth and set his foot on the bottom step.

A whirlwind of fire surrounded them. Fili was drenched in sweat, nearly lost his grip on Bard once, nearly staggered off into thin air when the drake rippled past. But _I promised Kili_, so he put one foot above the other. And again.

Fili hefted Bard up the steps until suddenly there were no more steps, and Bard straightened and took a stride forward on his own. Then before Fili's burning eyes the shadows moved.

"_Da!_"

Fili blinked. Sigrid knelt on the platform before them, her hands in her lap. A blond-haired man was at her side. Behind them, the ironwork of the windlance shimmered in the rising flames.

Bard stopped. His face remained tense, almost pained; shadow and red light flickered across the lines of his brow. "Where is Bain? The Black Arrow?"

"Dead," said Sigrid. "We're_ all_ dead. We failed, Da. The Black Arrow failed."

Smaug circled back again, close enough to whip up cloaks and blind Fili with his own hair. Flames sprang up on the belltower over their heads.

But Bard remained unflinching.

"My bow."

Sigrid fumbled to remove it from her back. She seemed to have forgotten how to use her hands, and cried out in sudden pain. The other man leaned over her then and managed to pull the yew bow over her head. He handed it to Bard.

"The Black Arrow couldn't pierce its hide. What more can you hope to achieve?" he asked.

"I am not aiming for his hide," said Bard.

At that moment a chill wind ruffled off the lake; for the first time, Fili tasted a teasing of clean air. Clouds of smoke rolled away from the silver moon, and its silent stare paled the blond man's face.

"I don't... I don't understand."

"There is a hole. A loose scale beneath the left wing." Bard selected an arrow from Sigrid's quiver. The moonlight changed him: he stood taller now, unaided, a grim steadiness in his eyes.

"How do you know this?" asked the blond man.

Bard smiled thinly, nocking arrow to string. "A little thrush told me."

He pulled the bowstring back to his ear. "Now! Stand sharp: this way he comes again!"

Smaug blazed a trail of fire toward them, wings flared wide like storm clouds, flames flickering from his maw. This time, no arrows rained against his hide. Lake-town burned below. The heat of flames was at their backs.

Sigrid choked on a sob. Fili took a step back, an arm raised in front of his face, and saw that only Bard had remained undaunted; his silhouette blazed with orange light; his arm was raised and taut against his temple.

The bowstring snapped.

_To be continued..._

* * *

**Authors' Notes:**

So, at least _someone_ seems to know his canon. ;)

**Footnotes:**

(i) _Nia's condition_: When Nia fell from the Master's boat and hit her head, the resultant trauma to Broca's Area led to the onset of her expressive aphasia (also known as Broca's aphasia, or non-fluent aphasia). Symptoms of her condition include difficulty in speech production and slow, effortful utterances. Due to the time period, aphasia is not well understood (see: the Master calling her a "half-wit", although that may also just be because he's a nasty piece of work...).

(ii) _Ylmr: _Dalish name for Ulmo. Borrowed from Quenya _Ulmo_ 'He who pours', via Noldorin _Ylmir_. As Esgaroth is on the Long Lake, Ulmo's realm has a much larger influence on their daily lives than the other Valar, including Manwë; thus, for most intents and purposes, Ulmo has become their chief deity.


	4. Lords of Lake and River

**We Happy Few**

Skyborn Huntress &amp; Orion

* * *

**Chapter 4 — Lords of Lake and River**

_"They sat them down upon the yellow sand,  
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;  
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,  
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore  
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,  
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.  
Then some one said, "We will return no more."_

— Alfred, Lord Tennyson, _The Lotos-Eaters_

Kili awakened to fire, but he was still cold.

At the least it was a more pleasant fire than the one in his dream. He rolled over, bringing his face to the crackling flames, and blinked.

One would scarce call it dawn. A line of fire pierced the eastern sky, but dark clouds huddled across the North, and a long cloak of fog swept off the lakefront. Everything seemed greyer, shrouded beneath the mist. _And too quiet._

The flames snapped.

A blond man with a good-natured face prodded at the bonfire with a stick. Kili did not know him, yet evidently Fili must, for the two sat quietly conversing with their backs to the dawn. Fili had commandeered a pipe: sweet smoke hazed in lazy rings above his head.

The ground was cold. For more than half a year Kili had not minded, and it would not have bothered him now but for the dull ache creeping up his right leg. He tried to shift his weight off his side, yet the movement only sent a sharp stab of pain through the fallow muscles. Instead, he tried to sit up.

That didn't quite work either.

Kili swayed, propped up on one elbow, and groaned through the growing haze, _"Fili_."

His brother left the fireside to lean over him. His shoulders blotted out the light; for an instant all Kili smelled was ash and tobacco and Fili. Then hands fitted beneath his arms, Fili hoisted, and the world swung back into focus.

Leaning up against Fili, Kili blinked blearily across the shadowed world and discovered theirs was not the only cold campsite. Pinpricks of orange light scattered up and down the coastline. Yet no light shone out over the water, where the dragon's gilded flank lay. He looked on _that_ for a long while, certain he was still dreaming.

Then Tilda sneezed.

They were not alone here, either. Bard's girls huddled on the opposite side of the fire, wrapped snugly in quilts. He had not seen them there before. Although, one of them was now blond.

Sigrid was across the campsite, tugging at a rumpled heap of pelts. She moved with the slow stiffness of a wearied old woman. The top pelt slid to the ground.

"Let me," said the blond man, hopping up. He shook out the battered pelt (Kili saw it was rather moth-eaten) and laid it about her shoulders as though the woebegone thing were a royal sable. Sigrid clutched at it, numbly. From wrist to fingertip her hands were swathed in cloth, and she certainly could not hope to move her curled fingers.

"The songs never mention this part," she muttered.

"They will sing of you," said the blond man.

"They will sing of Sigrid Burned-hands." She sighed, clutched them against her chest, and went back to sit with Tilda.

"Fili," Kili mumbled, "where is everyone?"

Fili's hands tightened against his shoulders. "Oin's with the healers, seeing to the wounded. And Bofur's gone with Bard to see about felling trees for shelters."

That left one of Bard's children, the boy, Kili thought hazily, but at the moment he could not recall his name. He wanted to ask about another, too, and her name was on his tongue, but he was half-afraid that had been a dream as well.

His belly growled.

"Fili, 'm starved."

"I know. We all are."

_Then let's go hunt. What happened to my bow?_

Then Kili remembered he couldn't sit up unaided. He grasped at Fili's hands. "Fi..."

"Some of my brothers are out tracking, to the North," said the blond man, returning to the fire. "And there are a decent amount of herbs to be found here, if you know where to look. Nia knows these banks better than I do."

Kili stared at him. "Who're you?"

"This is Mathias, one of the Dunedain," Fili put in. "He helped bring down the dragon."

"Well, I would not go so far," said Mathias the ranger, smiling. He went around the fire and touched the arm of the blond-haired girl. "Nia, Bard asked me to keep watch, so I cannot leave camp. But perhaps you could show the dwarves along the lake?"

Timidly, the girl nodded. Her blanket was clutched to her throat like a cloak. Beneath, Kili saw, the lace white sleeves of a nightgown hung down.

"If you don't mind, that is," said Mathias then, looking up.

"Not at all," said Fili. He looked at the girl Nia and self-consciously tugged at his moustache. "Though I hardly know what to look for."

Kili huffed, sitting upright. "We only spent the last year in the wilderness. Surely you remember _some _things." He was cold and hungry and his leg hurt. He decided. "I'll come with you."

Fili's hand rested on his shoulder. "Kili, your leg..."

"If I have to lie on my leg here any longer I'll scream," he said fiercely. "I have hands, don't I? And eyes. So... So help me up, Brother."

Fili obeyed. Hands reached around his arms and hauled him up, and Kili leaned back into him until he felt strong enough to carry his own weight. By then the world had stopped swaying, Mathias had found a smaller pelt to bundle around his sister's shoulders, and the sun had broken above the clouds on the horizon. The light burned directly in his eyes.

He pushed Fili away and took a wavering step on his own.

"We'll be back," said Fili. He stood near enough to catch Kili if he showed the slightest sign of falling. "With herbs."

"The healers will be grateful too, I'm sure," said Mathias. "Many are suffering. And the nights are only growing colder."

.

The sticky sweetness of seaberries filled Kili's nose. Tangles of hardy bushes reclaimed the northernmost shores of the Long Lake, where little else dared grow and even less could presume to thrive. Moreover, undaunted by wind or autumn frost, their branches bowed beneath resplendent clusters of bright orange berries. Yet Kili had tasted a handful and nearly spit them out again: the berries were fermenting. Even the birds would take their feast elsewhere, leaving the vibrant seaberries untouched.

But the people of Lake-town were starving.

Kili grimaced and shifted, stretching his right leg out in front of him. Walking was arduous. Sitting was worse. Inevitably he would forget and lean the wrong way, putting weight on the wound as he reached for a laden upper bough. And the ground was still too bloody cold.

Fili's shadow paused over him. "All right?"

"I'm fine."

Kili ducked his head and held his tongue. _I am lucky,_ he told himself, though it felt like anything but. He was alive. He was cured. Kili did not remember last night, but he saw the long shadows in Fili's face. He recognized what his brother could not quite hide behind heavy eyes. _Fear._

It was Kili, not Fili, who had taken an orc-arrow in the thigh, but Fili had weathered the night at his side, enduring his fever fits and deathly silences and...and he dared not imagine what else. Kili was loath to put Fili through any more suffering on his behalf.

So he endured, too.

The branches above his head rustled, and a smattering of orange berries tumbled into his hair. Kili shook his head impatiently.

"Watch it, Brother."

"Sorry," said Fili. He didn't _look _sorry. Indeed he didn't look much at Kili at all: his gaze wandered often to the girl Nia. She had left them the task of berry-picking and retreated up the shoreline, where clumps of wild camomile pushed between the rocks. She knelt in the damp, collecting flowers in the lap of her white frock.

Kili huffed.

_She's not even that pretty._ Nia was hardly more than a girl, with pasty-white skin and the overlarge bluish-gray eyes of a fawn, as if she was terrified of everything and everyone. She had a young deer's lean bony limbs, too, and moved as if she hadn't quite figured out how they worked yet.

Kili glanced upward, but Fili was obviously distracted again, plucking absent-mindedly at the bush. He bit the inside of his cheek, glancing away. _Get on with it already, then._

As much as he had hated the mothering, it certainly wouldn't kill Fili to show a little more sympathy. (And to think a little bit less with his prick.) He had his admirers aplenty in the Ered Luin: girls drunk on campfire light and good dwarvish ale and a certain blond's singing voice. And when Erebor was theirs Rada would surely find him some pretty dwarrowdam to ogle, and they'd have themselves a brood of fat dwarfling princes.

Kili rolled his eyes and tossed a handful of berries at the strewn pelt that was their makeshift carrier.

His leg hurt. Fili was being an idiot. Kili's mind left the sun-blighted shore and crossed the curtain of hours until dusk.

Then all became starlight; then he saw her. She was as deadly as the amber-eyed mountain lion on the heights, as the wolf stalking unseen in the brush, and she was beautiful: more beautiful than any of Fili's drunken conquests, more precious than anything dwarvish hands had ever wrought. And for a moment, for a dream, he had belonged to her.

Then Fili cursed aloud.

Kili rolled his head upward. His brother stepped back from the bushes, hissing, the skin between right thumb and forefinger stuck firmly in his mouth.

"Thorns," he managed after a moment, and Kili looking at his scraped palm saw pinpricks of blood welling against skin. And bite marks.

_Serves you right,_ he thought, but all he said was, "Better be more careful, there, Brother."

Nia came over, too, although Kili barely noticed until she extended her hand and said, "Please."

It was the first word Kili had heard from her. Fili stopped sucking on his hand and meekly held it out. Nia looked for a moment; then blood started to well again, and she vanished.

_Scared of everything,_ Kili concluded, and went back to picking berries, although he was doubly conscious of the thorns now. But his nimbler hands were suited to fletching arrows and making minute adjustments to a feathered shaft against a bowstring, and he had yet to scratch himself on the brambles.

By the time Nia dared reappear, Fili had gone back to the bush, too. This time she said nothing, but stood waiting for Fili to notice her. Then she apparently overcame her own shyness and tugged at his hand.

Kili looked up.

Nia carefully unfolded her right hand to reveal two broad fleawort leaves. With her left fingers she pressed and crumpled them together; then reaching again for Fili's limply proffered hand she pushed the poultice against his scratch. Fili watched over her bowed head until she had finished and stepped back, shyly.

"Thank you," he said. "I...uh, it didn't hurt that much." (Kili snorted.)

"Yes," said Nia. She stood looking up at him, and Fili back down at her, and for a long moment neither seemed to know what to say. Then Nia smiled suddenly at her feet and fled.

Kili turned his head to stifle a cough. Fili waited until Nia was out of hearing range before calmly reaching down and punching him.

.

"You've got it backwards," said Sigrid. "The tails need to be on the same side. It's not secure otherwise."

Tilda made a face up at her. "I _know_ how to make a weaver's knot."

"Do you now? What about when all our fish escape?"

That was enough conviction: Tilda, grimacing, plucked apart her haphazard knot and bent her head anew over the twisted rope.

Sigrid sat back with a sigh. Along the shore women of Esgaroth clustered over half-finished fishing nets while their ruined town smoked on the horizon. Tilda was joined at her craft by two old fishwives, their knuckles red with cold.

Sigrid, meanwhile, perched on a nearby rock with her bandaged hands in her lap. She could do no more than keep a sharp eye on Tilda's progress and correct her on occasion. Now and again she tried flexing her fingers, but Oin had tied the wrappings tight: even if it had not been for the pain, she could hardly hope to manage the quick precise tugs with which the fishwives secured their nets.

_I was useless against Girion's Bane, too._

Sigrid shifted restlessly. Still she found no respite from her thoughts; sighing she rose, and clutching her blanket about her shoulders she moved among the women at work. Snatches of murmured conversations swept over her; some looked up as she passed, and she smiled, though she received no recognition in return.

_And why should they? They have lost everything._

_We have lost everything._

Some, at least, could find solace in their plight. Sigrid could hear them murmuring amongst themselves, contriving of cold gates reopened, a hoard unguarded, and gold enough to alleviate all their misfortunes.

"What aid would the Lords of the Lake deny us, when they saw but a fraction of that mountain's wealth come down the river?" decried one woman as she passed. The weaver's face bore the caresses of age, her back bowed beneath the strain of labour. Yet her fervent words stirred the others; they looked at one another and dared wonder.

"That mountain belongs to the dwarves," reminded Sigrid.

The weaver looked up at her, brow creasing. "They are long dead by now, child."

"Some yet live."

Sigrid turned away. Cold air lifted off the lake and ruffled through her skirts. Pushing her dislodged hair from her eyes, then, she saw a familiar figure hastening up the shore toward them. From afar the flaps of his hat bobbed up and down like the particularly floppy ears of a friendly dog.

Sigrid crossed her arms over her chest as he came upon the net weavers at work. "Bofur. How progress the shelters?"

"Well." Bofur puffed and seized her elbow, turning her aside. "Do you bear arms?"

"What?"

"Your women-folk." He dropped his voice further. "Do you bear arms?"

Her heart skipped over a beat. Brushing her thigh - where she had always kept hidden a knife, at Bard's lecture - she answered tersely, "Some of us. Why? What's happened?"

_I may not be able to wield it, but at the least I might try._

Bofur hesitated. "Look out over the water."

She obeyed. Turning back, she scanned the Long Lake; and then she halted, and looked again more closely. From out the mist presently three tall figures broke. They were yet shadows on the horizon, slim and sleek, cream sails rippling.

"The Lords of the Lake," she breathed.

"The who now?" queried Bofur, puzzled, but already Sigrid was moving. She hitched her skirts about numb fists and ran down to the water. As she clambered atop the rocks the mists diverged, and a burst of sunlight haloed the golden ships.

"The Lake-Lords are coming!" she shouted.

The women stirred. Whispers intensified; old fishwives leaned conspiringly toward young girls, and one, hardly more than a child, broke down and wept.

Sigrid turned back, eyes agleam. "Tilda," she called, "find Father, quick!"

_Gyr spins us new luck at last._

.

Kefus Strongboar's heavy boots splashed toward shore. He was a large, barrel-chested man with a red face and a tangled red beard to match. On one arm he bore a buckled shield, emblazoned with a black boar's head on yellow.

A dozen strong men leaped from the longboat behind him, or furled her ruffled sails, or rolled barrels of goods toward the shallows.

But Strongboar was the first to the shore, and his hairy face broke suddenly into a grin as he lifted a hand in greeting. "Hail, Harald! We feared you dead."

Master Harald stepped from the disordered ring of folk who had come to gawk at the boats. The front line, at least, was assembled of his guard, save Mathias, who wore his bow over his shoulder, and Alfrid, who wore his usual sneer. Behind them pressed gaunt men, and women, and children on hand. Some were curious and hopeful; others were merely desperate, and hungrily watched the barrels tumbling from the boat. Sigrid had secured a rock for herself and her sister, and they peered above the heads of the rest.

Master Harald did not look himself. His regal furs were bedraggled and stank faintly of seaweed; his face was pale and splotchy, his hands shaking and red. According to rumour, what hours of the night he had not been clamouring for food and shelter he had instead spent bemoaning his ever-worsening gout.

But now he opened his arms and said, "Here you find I am not." He paused a moment and added, loudly, "And neither are my people!"

_We have arms,_ Sigrid thought, looking out over the motley array of guards as Tilda strained on tiptoe next to her. _Yet we have not the men to use them. _Strongboar had brought sharpened warriors with him, as had the other Lords, whose vessels had swept in neatly alongside his.

_We cannot fight them._

Sigrid was not fooled by smiles and open palms. Their elegant longboats - with their prows carved in the curved necks and gaping maws of lindworms; their spears and bucklers; their strapping men: these were raiders' tools.

_They expected to find us dead._

Gout-ridden, shivering Master Harald was all that stood between them and a bloody conquest. But the arrival of the final Lords of the Lake momentarily stilled that curdling thought.

Strongboar turned and beamed up the coastline. "Now see who comes! Anja, my sweet spear-wife; and Eugen the Tardy, unhurried as ever!"

"I am no man's wife," tartly answered Anja Red-Spear. The aforementioned spear rested in a sling over her shoulder. The Lord of the western shore had a coarse, weather-beaten face and a mane of fire. She stood with feet apart, hands on haunches. The housecarl at her side carried the blood-splashed wolf on his shield.

Eugen the Tardy, meanwhile, was dark-haired, sallow where Strongboar was ruddy, and portly where the warrior-lord was broad. Yet they said he knew sails and scales in the south, where they named him Master. His shield bore the proud-breasted bullfrog.

"We have journeyed far, and hardly dispatched our men and our efforts solely to hear your poor japes," said Eugen.

"Then let us tarry no longer." Kefus Strongboar turned to face the gathered folk of Esgaroth. "We are come to see the Dragon-Slayer!" he boomed.

"We have seen the great corpse as it lies, bloated and bedecked upon the ruins. Whose hand stilled the dread-wyrm's breath? By what blade or bolt fell he? Who among all men might claim the glory of this day?"

For a moment no one amidst the sullen crowd spoke; then a grim-faced man strode forth from the disassembled motley.

"I am he," said Bard.

Sigrid straightened. Even from afar her father seemed rigid and dour. Robed in his patched old coat, he yet stood as tall as Strongboar in his glimmering hauberk.

"I am Bard son of Baldr, of the line of Girion, who was descended from Brannon of old. I am the slayer of the dragon."

Kefus Strongboar looked upon him, as did Anja and Eugen, and Sigrid knew then that the Master alone did not stand between them. _They fear him,_ she thought suddenly.

She dared hope.

"Long have the Lords of the Lake feuded and forgotten what it was to sit in joined council," said Eugen the Tardy at last. "There is much you must tell us ere nightfall, Bard of Girion's line."

"And more still to be decided!" agreed Strongboar. "Come! Let us lift these weary eyes. Girion's Bane is vanquished. With me, sweet Anja, Eugen, Harald."

.

There was no great hall to prepare for the Lords' assembly.

For a table, they laid hewn oaken planks upon a pair of sturdy rocks. Their seats were sun-gilded stones, their audience the wind and the lake and the wild-eyed flock of Esgaroth.

Sigrid found herself seated in a place of honour beside Mathias, with Tilda and Bard on her right side. She had watched a town thing (i) before, but never had she dreamed to be sitting among the likes of jarls and warlords. She pushed her ruined hands into the folds of her skirt to hide them and clutched them there, limply.

Still she held them when Kefus Strongboar joined the moot circle, and paused for a moment peering down at her.

"Is this your daughter, Harald? She has grown well."

Master Harald had looked particularly sour since Strongboar had mentioned _more to be decided._ He ground his teeth, but it was not his voice that answered.

"Sigrid is my daughter," said Bard, laying a protective hand on her shoulder.

"My apologies, m'lady." Strongboar smiled.

Sigrid did not know what to say; no one had ever called her _m'lady _before. So she nodded.

Once Strongboar had resumed his seat the council opened session. First men came before them to tell of the coming of the dragon in the night; they spoke of the destruction of the town and the evacuation to the shore. Then Mathias rose, and to Sigrid's great surprise first told of her valour in retrieving the Black Arrow. And as the council stirred among themselves all she saw was Matt looking toward her and, sheepishly, smiling.

_Sigrid Burned-hands I will be. _She found she didn't mind the name so much now.

But their efforts in vain could not bring down the beast. So Mathias related how Bard at the last strung his bow, and aiming for a loosened scale beneath the drake's wing killed the fiend in flight. By the time his tale had finished, and he sat down next to Sigrid, all was quiet among the Lake-Lords.

Yet Sigrid could hear the questions buzzing behind their eyes, and many looked to Bard, and then to Master Harald, and then to Bard again. At length it was Eugen the Tardy who rose.

"We are all kin of the Dale-men of yore," he said. Turning to Bard first he bowed his head. "By your happy shot, that kingdom is now freed. But Dale wants still for a king. Her people are lost, starving. Who among us would we name?"

He turned to face out over the round-eyed folk. At first none had an answer; they ruminated, and shuffled, and glanced bitterly at the well-fed lords.

And then an old fisherman timorously clambered to his feet. "King Bard," quavered Percy.

Bard slowly lifted his head.

"King Bard!" agreed a shipwright, lifting his fist.

"King Bard!" clamoured the fishmongers and sailcrafters. And then all were shouting, rising, pushing forward, and Sigrid could hardly believe her ears.

"_King Bard! King Bard!_"

"We will have Dale! Let the river run golden and the fountains flow with silver!"

"Up the Bowman, and down with Moneybags!"

Master Harald's face went puce. He lifted a hand for silence; and when none heeded he rose with difficulty on his gout-ridden feet, but still no one would pay him any mind. He had left the brave to burn on rooftops, defending Lake-town to the last, and bitterness and hunger made a long grudge.

"Why, O People? Why do I receive all your blame? For what fault am I to be deposed? Who aroused the dragon from his slumber, might I ask? Who obtained of us rich gifts and ample help, and led us to believe that old songs could come true? Who played on our soft hearts and our pleasant fancies? And what sort of gold have they sent down the river to reward us?"

His shouted words availed the crowd, turning heads and thoughts to the smoke-shrouded mountain on the horizon. Angry mutters intensified, but now they had a new target.

As the crowd moved then Sigrid caught a flash of a pale face. Fili was sitting on a rock next to his brother, a little apart from the crush of the Lake-town folk, a tight grip on Kili's arm. Bofur stepped in front of them as if he alone might shield them from the people's ire. _Some of us are armed,_ Sigrid had told him. She wanted to scream.

The Master raised an incriminating, shaking hand.

"From whom should we claim the recompense of our damage, and aid for our widows and orphans?"

The crowd agreed.

It was Bard's firm voice that cut through the escalating chaos. "Fools! Why waste words and wrath on those unhappy creatures?"

He stood. The crowd had not forgotten his fervor; and the grave warning in his speech gave them new pause. "This is no time for angry words, or for considering weighty plans of change. There is work to do. I serve you still, Master - though after a while I may think again of your words and strike North with any that will follow me."

So Bard spoke: so the people of Esgaroth listened, and resorted to muttering unhappily to one another. Then Bard turned aside and bowed, and the purple-faced Master dismissed the moot.

_They wanted to name Father a king,_ Sigrid thought dazedly as the Lake-Lords departed.

_Do they not know that he is merely a bargeman?_

"Sigrid," Bard called sharply. The others were gone now. She leaped up to follow, scattering her thoughts.

Yet hours later, after the campfire had died and the only sign of Mathias on watch was a shadow's movement beneath the stars, Sigrid remembered. She wondered.

In the old tales lords and leaders were named for prowess in battle, or wisdom, or lineage. But her father was neither a warrior nor a dragon-slayer by trade: he was a simple bargeman, as had been _his_ father before him. And certainly Bard was not unloved by the fishermen and the tradesfolk, but he had been foiled at every attempt to better their lot by Master Harald and his ilk.

Nonetheless he was of Girion's line, in direct descent from crownless princes to humbler lords. Sigrid had heard those stories sung on Ma's knee; and then, when she was older, and Ma was gone, she had recited them to poor Bain, and Tilda, and Nia Harald's daughter. She knew the lays by rote, but she had never truly _believed_ her family were the heirs to Girion's dale.

_Father slew Girion's Bane. He freed Girion's folk._

Beneath her head the cold ground echoed with distant singing. She closed her eyes and listened to the nameless minstrel wandering the shore:

_The lord of lake and river,_

_The king by mountain lone;_

_The heir of Brannon's harbour_

_Shall come unto his throne!_

_._

_His crown's reclaimed in shaft-fall:_

_Ne'er failed his hunter's eye!_

_His watch is burgh and mead-hall_

_As __Ǫ__r's _(ii)_ hawk surveys sky._

_._

_Wake spring, and burgeon waters!_

_Let wind proclaim our chord_

_And echo sons and daughters:_

_The Crownless is restored!_

_._

_Hence Man shall fear no evil,_

_not flame, nor shadow-spread._

_Protector of our people_

_Hail Bowman, dragon's dread!_

_._

_To be continued..._

* * *

**Authors' Notes:**

Well, Kili, you could've been a little more grateful and all.

**Footnotes:**

(i) _Thing:_ In Germanic societies, a governing assembly that was made up of all free men. And, yes, it is called a _thing_ (or _ting_, in modern Scandinavian languages). The equivalent in Anglo-Saxon England was the _folkmoot_ or _folkmote_.

(ii) _Ǫ__r: _Dalish name for Oromë. Borrowed from Sindarin _Araw_, "Horn-blowing; sound of horns". In the Dalish pantheon, Manwë's role is much reduced in favour of Aulë and Oromë; thus the hawk, a predatory bird, is more commonly associated with Oromë's domain than Manwë. Compare the shift in Germanic mythology: Týr, head of the reconstructed Indo-European pantheon, came to be replaced in his role of father of the gods by Odin.


End file.
